


On Happy Endings (and the lack thereof)

by PhoenixGryffin



Category: Cinderella (2015), Cinderella - All Media Types, Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon Compliant, Gen, Marriage of Convenience, Suicidal Thoughts, Weddings, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:51:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixGryffin/pseuds/PhoenixGryffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fairy godmothers don’t exist, because if they did, why hadn’t one assisted Lady Tremaine and her daughters when they so desperately needed help? Why would a fairy godmother help a servant girl go to a <i>ball</i>, of all things, but neglect to help a family on the brink of financial ruin? No fairy godmother had saved Lady Tremaine from marrying a man she didn’t love; she’d had to do that all by herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Happy Endings (and the lack thereof)

**Author's Note:**

> As you were probably all aware, this is a derivative work and ownership of the original _Cinderella_ film isn't mine; however, I thought that it was probably important to note that some pieces of dialogue in the middle of this fic are taken verbatim from the film and are thus _really_ not mine.

It’s like something out of a fairy tale, really.

She first meets him when she’s twenty-three and wandering rather aimlessly through the town square. Although she's still young, she’s already more or less resigned herself to the idea of being an old maid forever, so it comes as a bit of a surprise when the auburn-haired young man begins to speak with her; surely there are much more beautiful women her age in the world. However, the young man doesn’t seem to think so, as he acts more than happy to hold a conversation with her. Eventually the two of them, still conversing, make their way to the outskirts of the forest.

“I,” he says after they’ve talked for a while, “am Francis Tremaine.”

“Tremaine?” she whispers, hardly daring to believe it. Her family is well off, certainly, but if the rumors she’s heard about his family are true, he probably could afford to use the equivalent of their yearly earnings on a spending spree without even thinking twice about it.

Francis simply nods. “And you are?”

She introduces herself, curtsying as she does so.

“It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” he says, gently kissing her hand. “I must be off, but perhaps we shall see each other again.”

“Yes,” she replies, “that would certainly be lovely.”

In the back of her mind, she doesn’t _really_ expect to see Francis again. Such things simply don’t happen in the real world. So it’s a surprise the next week when she’s tapped on the shoulder by none other than Francis Tremaine himself.

“I’m dreadfully glad to see you again,” says Francis, light blue eyes shining in apparent pleasure.

“As am I,” she replies, smiling for what feels like the first time in a long while.

The two of them get to know each other even better, and at the end of the day he asks her where she lives.

“It’s in case we don’t see each other again,” he explains. “I couldn’t stand the idea of never seeing you again.”

“Nor could I,” she says, and it’s true. He smiles, a genuine one, before leaving her behind.

From then on, he visits her at her house nearly every day. They talk about many things; some conversational topics, like what their favorite childrens’ names are, are frivolous. However, other topics, topics like how the kingdom should be run, are rather serious. Some things are the sort of matters that are hardly ever discussed by young women, but Francis listens despite all that, even when he doesn’t necessarily agree with her.

And they talk about love. A little more than a year after they first meet, they begin talking of it, and he makes fun of her for being so cynical.

“So you don’t believe in love?” he teases.

“I didn’t _say_ that,” she retorts. “I simply think that the idea of ‘happily ever after’ is ridiculous. Take my parents, for example. They loved each other when they first married, or so they say, but now look at them! Can’t stand each other.”

“ _My_ parents still love each other,” says Francis. “Very much.”

“Well, we can’t all have parents who are courtiers, can we,” she snaps, but immediately regrets it. Now she’s done it—insulted his family. What a fool she is.

Francis doesn’t get mad, though, which surprises her. Instead, he simply replies, “No, I suppose not. It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

“Not for you,” she says, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Your children will have courtiers for parents.”

“Not just my children,” he replies, pulling a small box out of his pocket. “Yours as well, if you wish it.” With that, Francis opens the box, revealing an ornate diamond ring. “Do you?”

For a moment, she simply stares at him. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected herself to be in love—in _love_! what a ridiculous idea—with someone, and yet here she is, soul utterly at Francis’s mercy. It’s a horrifying concept, really, if she stops to think about it; the man could ask her to leap off a cliff and she’d probably do it. Absolutely terrifying, and yet she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Of course I do,” she exclaims. Francis pulls her into an embrace, and she finds herself wondering if maybe there had been something to the fairy tales she’d read as a child after all.

* * *

The wedding is wonderful, to say the least. She's in a frilly white dress finer than anything she's ever worn before; Francis had spared absolutely no expenses, wanting everything to be absolutely perfect. He's in a well-fitted black suit, which provides a marvelous contrast to her long, flowing dress.

When Francis finally kisses her, she kisses him back, and it's like the whole world is theirs for the taking. She's Lady Tremaine now; not only does she have a wonderful husband, but she's got a title, something she's secretly dreamed of ever since she was a little girl.

The wedding night is even more wonderful, which comes as a surprise to her. She'd been nervous about it beforehand, but she really needn't have worried; Francis turns out to be quite an adept lover.

"You're the most important person in the world, did you know?" Francis sleepily murmurs to her once it's over.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she says.

"No," he replies, softly caressing her face, "I mean it. You deserve everything." With that, he falls asleep, leaving her awake, his words still on her mind. _You deserve everything._

* * *

After it's over, they move to a completely different part of the kingdom, far away from their relatives. Francis had been hesitant about the move, but she'd been all for it. If she had once possessed any iota of love for her immediate family, it's since dried up, leaving only love for Francis in its place.

So they purchase a completely new house far away with Francis's funds, and begin their new life there. It's not easy, certainly, but the fact that Francis is so affluent reduces the hardship considerably. Before long, Lady Tremaine can hardly remember what her old, poorer life had been like, and she doesn't quite care to.

The second year of their marriage, a number of things happen: Francis gets a high-paying job as the master of the Mercer's Guild, for one—while he has quite a lot of money stockpiled up, it won't last forever—and she becomes pregnant.

She ends up giving birth to two beautiful daughters. They look a bit more like Francis than her; they've got both his somewhat more rounded face and his slightly curlier hair, and she loves them for it. Francis adores them, too, as expected. The only thing she and Francis ever disagree on regarding the newborn baby girls is what to name them.

"I was thinking something more simple for this one," says Francis. "Like Anne."

"Anne!" Lady Tremaine laughs out loud. "That might be a suitable name for a peasant girl, perhaps, but for our daughter? Absolutely not."

"Well then," replies Francis a bit irritably, "what would you call her?"

"Anastasia," she says decisively. "I have always wanted a little Anastasia."

"That's much too exuberant," he protests. "Anne is short, sweet, adorable. Anastasia sounds like the name of a pompous duchess."

"Better a pompous duchess than a poor kitchen wench," she replies. He can't think of any good response to that, so the girl is christened Anastasia, and her sister is named Drisella soon after.

Francis absolutely dotes on the girls, and makes sure to get them whatever they want whenever they want it. It's a good way of life, though privately Lady Tremaine wonders if he isn't making the girls too soft; after all, if they are to find themselves really good husbands they'll have to be quite self-sufficient. Some years later, she voices this concern to Francis, but he simply laughs.

"Good husbands? My dear, they're _ten_. They won't be looking for husbands for a while yet."

"When _I_ was ten," she reminds him, "I was managing quite a bit of my family's funds."

"You," he says gently, "were not the daughter of a lord and lady. _Our_ daughters, on the other hand, will have no need to work at all."

Perhaps he does have a point. Besides, it's already quite clear that Anastasia and Drisella are not quite cut out to be the working sort. No, they're destined for better things than that.

“I suppose you’re right, dear,” she concedes.

He gently kisses her on the cheek. “Don’t worry, darling. Everything is going to work out perfectly fine.” She nods and softly kisses him back, because he’s right, really. Everything _will_ be fine.

* * *

 

**** Some more years pass, and life is quite affable. Lady Tremaine still worries about the girls and their apparent lack of social graces and skills, but Francis repeatedly tells her that they’re still quite young and will turn out fine eventually. He can be quite convincing when he needs to be, so she doesn’t argue.

They buy a kitten; Francis had never been much of a cat person, but he eventually relents after quite a bit of coaxing from Lady Tremaine.

“What’ll you call it?” he asks her, holding up the flat-faced lump of grey fur somewhat distastefully.

She scrutinizes the kitten carefully. “Lucifer, I think.”

“Lucifer?” he laughs. “This cat is quite honestly the least menacing thing I have ever seen. Mice will be chasing _him_ , just you watch.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “I think he’ll be a fantastic mouser once he comes of age a bit.” She ends up being right; the cat grows up to be wonderful at chasing mice, and even Francis grudgingly comes to appreciate him eventually.

The four of them plus Lucifer are a family; they’re not always happy, of course, especially now that the girls are hitting _those_ years where they simply _must_ have everything, but they all still get along quite well most of the time. Not only that, but they live in a fancy house with almost more money than they know what to do with. Sometimes it seems to Lady Tremaine like the whole affair is too good to be true.

* * *

 

One day, Francis doesn’t wake up. ****

It’s a morning that starts out just like any other; Lady Tremaine gets up long after the sun’s risen (she was never one for early mornings), but to her surprise, her typically early-rising husband is still asleep.

“Sweetheart?” She taps him lightly.

No response.

“Francis?” This time, she shakes him a bit harder.

Still nothing.

“Francis!”

But he remains perfectly still. His skin is cold. Too cold.

Shrieking, Lady Tremaine runs out of the room, calling for a doctor, a medical apprentice, anyone.

Eventually a doctor does arrive, but instead of performing a miracle, he simply stares at Lady Tremaine with something like pity in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"What do you mean you're sorry?" asks Lady Tremaine, forcing her slightly trembling voice to stay calm. It won't do to go into hysterics. "You're a doctor. _Do_ something."

"I—I am sorry, milady, truly, but it seems to be a heart condition. Your husband—well, he's been dead for a few hours now. I can't save him."

"You're wrong," she says, shaking her head vigorously. The doctor's lying. He must be. Hadn't her husband been fine last night? He had kissed her, told her how beautiful she was; in other words, he'd been very much alive. And now, all of a sudden, he simply wasn't.

Francis had promised and promised that he'd always be there. He'd _said_ he'd be there when she needed him. But now, when she needs him most, he's gone. And he won't be coming back.

The girls, when they find out, fly into hysterics. For days afterward, they simply won't stop sobbing. Lady Tremaine grieves as well, but carries her feelings deep inside; she'll have to hold the family together now, and it won't do to make a scene. So she carries the terrible sadness in her heart, and the silent burden of it weighs on her every moment of every day.

They purchase black dresses for the funeral, and the girls complain about how unflattering the color looks on them. They're correct; Anastasia and Drisella's complexions are much more well-suited to bright colors. Lady Tremaine, however, rather likes how the black looks on her. She supposes it's a bit inconsiderate to be thinking of her looks when her husband is to be buried, but the whole affair hurts less this way.

* * *

 

After the funeral, the remainder of the family tries to move on from the loss, but the only one who seems to be able to fully do so is Lucifer. Lady Tremaine tries to manage the girls as best she can on her own, but they're much more demanding than she had previously realized. Despite that, she begins to think that maybe things will be alright after all. Maybe the emptiness in her heart will go away in time. Things will work out. They _will_.

Then the bills start arriving.

At first, they're not hard to pay; the girls have no idea what all the numbers mean, but Lady Tremaine does, and they stay afloat that way. But the bills keep coming and coming: expenses for the funeral service, expenses for the dresses, expenses for simple everyday things that the three women had taken for granted before now. Francis, with his steady income, had always managed the money. He isn't here anymore, though, and the Tremaines' once-impressive amount of money quickly begins to dwindle. Lady Tremaine tries to keep it a secret, not wanting to worry the girls, but their desires for material objects are insatiable.

"Look at this hat!" gasps Anastasia one day, gazing at a very gaudy and bejeweled hat in a storefront. "I want it."

"I saw it first!" Drisella protests. "Mother, tell her _I_ saw it first—"

Lady Tremaine loves her daughters dearly, but her patience has been running incredibly thin as of late.

"It doesn't _matter_ who saw it first, Drisella, as neither of you will be getting it."

"What do you mean?" asks Drisella, forehead scrunching in a curiously child-like manner. "I don't understand."

"You heard me," Lady Tremaine replies coldly. "Neither you nor your sister will be receiving the hat, so I would appreciate it if you could stop your inane chatter."

This revelation, however, does exactly the opposite.

"We're not getting it?" shrieks Anastasia. "But you _can't do that!_ "

"Girls, girls," sighs Lady Tremaine, "I didn't want to tell you this, but since your father died, we don't have quite as much money to spend on fripperies anymore."

The two girls simply stare at her, mouths slightly agape; if the situation hadn't been so grim, their expressions might have been amusing.

"Oh, Anastasia," sobs Drisella, turning to face her sister with a look of abject horror, "we're going to be poor!"

"We'll grow ugly!" wails Anastasia.

"And we'll never get any new clothes!"

"And no one will _ever_ marry us!"

Overcome, the two completely break down into tears right there in front of the shop; Lady Tremaine normally would have been horribly embarrassed at their childish behavior, but Anastasia's last comment about marriage had struck her more deeply than she'd care to admit. The girls' primary appeal to suitors had been their wealth and titles, but now, with a dead father and lack of money—

No. She can't afford to think like that. Their personalities may not exactly be ideal wife material, but surely there'll be _someone_ out there who'll take the girls.

* * *

The months pass, and no suitors seem interested in the girls. The amount of money the family has saved up shrinks and shrinks until it's almost gone, and all the servants have to be laid off. In despair, Lady Tremaine tries to secure jobs for the girls, but it's no use; Anastasia and Drisella simply have no talent for that sort of thing. Francis’s infinite love for the girls had only ended up harming them more than he would ever know. What an utter _waste_ love had turned out to be.

She searches for a job for herself as well, but she always receives incredibly judgmental looks from the business owners; after she reveals that she's a single mother, they always find a way to tell her _we're terribly sorry, but you don't seem quite qualified for this position_. It's ridiculous, but what can she do?

Lady Tremaine had always been a rather cynical person when it came to things like magic and whatnot, but she finds herself dreaming, hoping, praying that someone will help her, _anyone_. Or anything. There has to be _something_ out there.

But of course, there's no one and nothing. The girls cry all the time now. Things start having to be sold. There's no way they can go on like this.

Lady Tremaine eventually realizes what must be done. It's not appealing in the slightest, but if it will help her daughters, there's no question about it.

She'll have to remarry.

* * *

The search for a husband doesn't come naturally to her. Every day, she forces herself to apply more mascara than usual, does her lips a darker shade of red than ever before, looks in the mirror and no longer recognizes herself. Suitable husbands won’t want just any woman, and beauty takes work.

If she’s perfectly honest with herself, the whole idea is utterly repulsive; it feels like prostitution, almost. And isn't it really? At any rate, it's the same concept.

She begins the hunt for eligible bachelors. He'll have to be rich, of course, and about her age, so that no one in town talks. Other than that, anyone's fine. Anyone that can pull their family out of the mire—though, of course, he doesn't have to know that's what he's doing. Let him think it's for love. Let him live a lie.

* * *

 

There's a man, a small merchant with dark hair and dark eyes, who visits one day. He immediately asks for her husband. ****

"He's dead," she says flatly. "He died more than a year ago."

"Oh," he murmurs. "I'm sorry for your loss." She waves the trite platitudes off. They're just words. They don't actually _mean_ anything.

"My wife died many years ago," he says so quietly that she has to strain to hear him. "I still miss her every single day...I suppose that's what it must be like for you." She nods briskly, but it's not entirely true; of course she misses Francis, of _course_ the loss of him burns like poison inside, but she's a bit more preoccupied with keeping her family alive at this point.

"Well," the soft-spoken merchant says, "I suppose I'll need to find an inn—"

"Don't," she replies. This could be her chance. "That simply won't do! We—that is, my daughters and I—have more than enough room in our house for you." They've got even more room than usual now that they had to sell all the furniture in the side parlor, but Lady Tremaine purposely neglects to mention this to the man. "Why, you must stay here."

"I—well, I don't know, I'd rather not be of any trouble—"

"Nonsense!" she says, waving her hand nonchalantly and forcing herself to laugh in a lighthearted manner. "It would be no trouble at all."

He wrings his hands together and asks her if she's _really_ sure, he doesn't want to be a bother, but she reiterates that it's perfectly fine. Eventually he accepts.

The girls visibly pout upon learning that there'll be a stranger in their midst, but Lady Tremaine quickly manages to hush them by explaining that the man could be their financial savior.

"You mean he'll give us money?" says Drisella, eyes lighting up.

"Something like that," Lady Tremaine murmurs, desperately wishing it were that easy.

* * *

The merchant had intended to only stay for a week, but Lady Tremaine convinces him to extend his stay by another week, and then another. At first he’s very shy, but soon he opens up and begins talking. Slowly, she convinces him to tell her all about himself, and he does. The man doesn’t sound nearly as well off as her previous husband had been, but at this point Lady Tremaine would take anything.

He doesn’t ask her about her old life with Francis at all, and she doesn’t volunteer anything. Those memories are _hers_ and hers alone.

Every night, she listens to all of the merchant’s inane stories about his dead wife and his daughter back home, nods in all the right places, fashions herself into the image of an ideal wife bit by bit. And she hates herself for it, but what else can be done?

During the third week, Lady Tremaine accidentally-on-purpose lets slip the fact that she and the girls have no means of financial support. The merchant is shocked to hear this.

“I thought—well, pardon my hasty assumptions, but I’d previously been under the impression that the three of you were rather well off.”

“We were,” she says softly, “but ever since my husband died…” She lets the sentence trail off for dramatic effect.

“That’s absolutely dreadful,” murmurs the merchant. “So you have no way of making a living?”

“None at all,” Lady Tremaine replies, watching his face very carefully. “At the rate things are going, we’ll have to sell the house soon, and then I simply don’t know _what_ we’ll do. But who knows, perhaps someone will have pity on us.” With that, she walks delicately out of the room, leaving him alone to think over her words.

* * *

He stays another week, and then another. After the fifth week, he asks her to marry him.

“I know it’s quick—too quick, some people might say—but I truly believe I could be happy again with you,” the merchant says, offering her a diamond ring that’s much less grand than her first one was. She takes it in a pretense of mock happiness, all the while acting like she’s forcing herself not to cry tears of joy.

Later that night, alone in her room, she is indeed forcing herself not to cry, but it’s for a much different reason. She doesn’t _want_ to be married again, doesn’t want to move to a farmhouse where she doesn’t know anyone and no one knows her, doesn’t want to have to kiss anyone but Francis. But there’s simply no getting around it. The only way to stay alive, she’s found, is to be hard and uncaring and willing to do anything to save yourself.

The next morning, Anastasia and Drisella are understandably upset.

“You’re getting married? To _him_?” shrieks Drisella.

“Didn’t you love Daddy at all?” Anastasia wails.

Lady Tremaine tries to brush off the question like it doesn’t hurt. “Of course I loved your father, Anastasia. But ultimately love will get you nowhere in this world.”

The girls stare at her with identical blank looks.

“...Nowhere?” asks Drisella.

“Nowhere,” Lady Tremaine repeats. “When you two get married, I hope you choose your partners based on their social status. All men are fools. They’re not worth your love.” It’s a cruel statement, yes, but she’s simply being practical; she doesn’t think she could stand it if the girls were to have their hearts broken the way hers was.

* * *

The merchant leaves to go inform his daughter of the upcoming marriage, but he’s back for the wedding before Lady Tremaine really gets a chance to appreciate the time away from him. He does have rather good timing, though; the day after he arrives, she has to sell all of the furniture in the dining room.

The wedding’s a simple affair; he didn’t want to go to all the trouble of bringing his daughter up here, and Anastasia and Drisella flat-out refused to attend, so it’s just the two of them and the priest all alone in the large, cavernous church. Lady Tremaine can’t help but think of her past wedding with a pang of longing, but it doesn’t matter. It’s over now. Nothing to do but move forward.

Before the wedding, the merchant had offered to buy Lady Tremaine a new white dress, but she’d refused, instead pointing him towards a black one.

“But why on earth—” he’d said.

“I simply look better in black,” she’d said, which had been true, but then she’d added, “That’s the only reason why, really,” which hadn’t been true at all. He’d nodded, gently sliding his hand around her waist, and she’d had to pretend that the feeling of his touch was something she liked.

So she stands up there with her husband-to-be in an elegant, well-fitted black dress, a dress much better suited for a funeral than a wedding, and the priest tells the merchant that he may kiss the bride. He does. He does, and she forces herself not to tense up, to kiss him back as passionately as she can manage without making herself feel downright ill in the process. That’s it, then. They’re married. At least she’s keeping her last name.

The wedding night is even more abysmal than the pitiful wedding had been; he’s awkward, hesitant, acts like simply touching her is profane to his last wife’s memory, and she simply doesn’t care what happens anymore. After the first night, the rest of their honeymoon only lasts for a week, and she’s profoundly grateful for it.

It’s bitingly apparent that the man can’t get over the loss of his first wife, which Lady Tremaine finds infuriating; it’s been _years_ , surely he can take his mind off of her at some point? After all, it’s not like _she’s_ dwelling on the memory of Francis every second, and she’s got more of a right to, given that he only died a year and a half ago. But even on their honeymoon, the merchant still seems upset; he’ll break off conversations and simply stare forlornly into the sky, and when they’re in bed he never looks at her face. Lady Tremaine tries not to take it to heart. She doesn’t love him, not in the slightest, but when he looks at her body it’s clear he only sees the ghost of his first wife, and it hurts more than she’d care to admit.

* * *

Once the week is over, they return to the house briefly to pack up all of the Tremaines’ (very few) belongings. After that’s done, they sell the house. Lady Tremaine refuses to get upset over it. It’s just a house. That’s all. It doesn’t matter.

Anastasia and Drisella throw themselves into a tizzy over it, as expected, but she attempts to console them with the fact that their new house will have furniture, servants, and more or less everything they’d been used to before.

“But it’s a _farm_ house,” whines Anastasia. “It’s probably in the middle of nowhere.”

“And there’ll be _animals_ ,” Drisella chips in, wrinkling her nose. “I can’t stand animals. Only Lucifer.”

“You two simply must adjust to it, that’s all,” snaps Lady Tremaine. She’d made a great sacrifice for their sakes, and they’re still ungrateful. Of course. She really shouldn’t have been surprised. “You’ll also have a new stepsister.”

“A new sister?”

“ _Step_ sister, Drisella,” Lady Tremaine emphasizes. “I’ve heard quite a lot about her.” According to what her husband had said multiple times, if his judgement was to be believed, his daughter Ella was the kindest, sweetest, most wonderful girl in the world. Lady Tremaine, never in the mood to hear any more of his inane prattling, had not bothered to question for further details.

* * *

The farmhouse turns out to be exactly the type of quaint, pretty-as-a-picture home that one reads about in stories. Its unabashed cuteness makes Lady Tremaine _sick_. She can certainly tell why that wife of his had talked about kindness and goodness so much, oh yes. Living here in blissful ignorance of the rest of the world’s depravity _would_ turn one into a ridiculous idealist.

As the carriage pulls up, Anastasia and Drisella fiercely elbow each other for the chance to glimpse the entrance first. They exit before her as well, and she takes a moment to compose herself before exiting with Lucifer in a slow, dignified manner, one befitting a lady of her position, even if her position isn’t quite as high now.

There’s a girl staring expectantly at her as she exits, and Lady Tremaine realizes immediately that this must be Ella. Even in the ridiculously simple dress, even without a fancy hairstyle, the girl’s beautiful. She’s gorgeous without even having to try, and Lady Tremaine instantly despises her for it. It isn’t _fair_ that some people get everything they want handed to them on a silver platter while others, like her, have to work for everything.

“You did not say that your daughter was so beautiful,” she casually mentions to her husband once everyone’s inside.

His eyes light up. “She takes after her—” He stops, apparently realizing that he’s crossed a line.

“Her mother,” Lady Tremaine finishes for him, trying to brush it off like it’s nothing. The merchant smiles gratefully at her but doesn’t apologize.

* * *

Life as the merchant’s wife is lonely, horribly so. He actively prefers the company of his ridiculously sweet daughter over her. Even when he is alone together with Lady Tremaine, they rarely talk. There isn’t anything to say.

It’s apparent to Lady Tremaine that she’ll always, _always_ be second-best, always be competing with the ghost of the first wife (who takes a human form in the merchant’s daughter). Lady Tremaine sees now that she’ll never be loved for who she is, only for the woman she’s replacing. The thought echoes in her head day and night, and it’s enough to make anyone mad.

So she begins to throw parties, spending money with wild abandon. She invites quite a few of the local men, sets up card games, drinks as much as she can stand to, laughs too loud and for too long in a desperate attempt to be human again. Her husband rarely, if ever, joins in. She gets the feeling that he disapproves of such parties. She doesn’t care.

Her husband starts leaving on trips for his career—a few at first, and then he leaves more and more until he’s rarely ever home anymore. Maybe it’s because he wants to get away from her. She doesn’t mind. It’s better when he’s not around, honestly; there’s no one to passive-aggressively complain that the noise of the parties is too loud. When he’s gone, there’s no one to disinterestedly sleep with her when she’d rather not deal with such things at all; she doesn’t love the merchant, and it’s glaringly apparent he’d rather be with a dead woman.

One night, she leaves a party for a brief second and accidentally comes across the merchant talking to Ella in his office. Curious as to what they’re discussing, she listens in.

“While I’m away,” he says, “I want you to be good to your stepmother and stepsisters, even though they may be... _trying_ at times.” There’s a hollow feeling in the pit of Lady Tremaine’s stomach. Why did he even _marry_ her, then, if he’s going to complain about her and her children when he thinks she can’t hear?

“I promise,” says the girl.

“Thank you. I will always leave a part of me behind, Ella. Remember that. And, and—and your—your mother’s here too, though you see her not.” Of course she is. The house is overrun with the presence of Ella’s mother. It’s inescapable.

“She’s a part of this house,” continues the merchant. “She’s at the very heart of this place. That’s why we must cherish this house always, for her.”

“I miss her,” murmurs Ella. “Do you?”

“Very much,” he says, and then they’re embracing. Lady Tremaine, staring at them from outside the glass panes of her husband’s office, feels more alone than ever.

The girl Ella has _everything_. She’s beautiful, she’s incredibly gifted, and she’s more loved and respected than Lady Tremaine will ever be in this house. It isn’t _fair_.

* * *

After her useless husband finally leaves, she calls Ella into one of the side parlors and dries the girl’s tears with her pocket handkerchief. Ella attempts to refer to her as ‘stepmother’, but Lady Tremaine stops her; that girl is not going to call her any form of the word ‘mother’. They’re _not_ related, and they never will be. ‘Madam’ will do, and she tells Ella so.

Just then, Anastasia and Drisella run by, screaming at each other, and Lady Tremaine sees an opportunity for gain.

“Anastasia and Drisella have always shared a room,” she begins. “Such dear, affectionate girls.” The girls themselves run by again, shouting about some trinket or other. “I think they’re finding their current sleeping quarters rather confining.” She waits for Ella to take the bait, hoping that the girl’s as easy to manipulate as her father had been.

“Well, but—my bedroom’s the biggest besides yours and Father’s,” begins Ella, and Lady Tremaine turns to look at her. “Perhaps they would like to share it.”  
“What a wonderful idea!” replies Lady Tremaine. “What a good girl you are.”

“Well,” begins Ella, “I can stay in the—”

“The attic!” Lady Tremaine interrupts. “Quite so.”

“The attic?”

“Why, yes. Only temporarily, while I have all the other rooms redecorated. The attic’s so nice and airy.”

With that, she continues speaking and eventually gets Ella to move her ridiculous sewing things out of the parlor as well. Maybe this new sleeping arrangement will finally keep the girl away from her. The less Lady Tremaine sees of the merchant’s daughter, the happier she’ll be.

* * *

Life goes on rather well without the merchant around. Lady Tremaine rarely crosses paths with Ella, which is all for the better; she can’t stand the girl, can’t stand the way she always bears all her burdens cheerfully, as if her small inconveniences are anything compared to what Lady Tremaine’s gone through. Still, though, life is bearable.

That is, until late one afternoon. Ella answers the door, and there’s a farmer there to see her. Lady Tremaine stands directly behind, mildly intrigued; they never get callers at this hour.

“Miss Ella,” the farmer says, “it’s your father. He took ill on the road. He’s passed on, miss. He’s gone.”

At first the full weight of the farmer’s words doesn’t hit Lady Tremaine. Ella’s father took ill—

He’s _gone_ , the farmer had said. He’s dead. Her second husband is dead. She has two dead husbands.

“To the end,” continues the farmer, “he spoke only of you, miss, and your mother.”

And it shouldn’t hurt, it shouldn’t, but it _does_. Even in the end, her husband hadn’t liked her enough to think of her on his deathbed. He’d only thought of his _daughter_. And her mother, the long-dead wife who’s apparently more important than his flesh-and-blood one.

Lady Tremaine’s second husband is dead, just like her first one, and she’s once again left without a source of income. It isn’t fair, it isn’t _fair_ that life is so cruel. There’s nothing she can do. Maybe she’ll have to marry yet again—

No. Absolutely not. Never. _Anything_ but that.

“He promised to give you this.” The farmer hands Ella a branch of some sort. Behind her, Anastasia and Drisella are indignant.

“But what about my lace?”

“My parasols?”

“Can’t you see none of that matters?” says Lady Tremaine. “We’re ruined. How will we live?” She’s not going through this again, she’s _not_ , she _can’t_. Maybe it’s all just a bad dream. Maybe she’ll wake up and the events of the past few years won’t have taken place at all and she’ll be with Francis back at their old house—

She’s being ridiculous. Being ridiculous won’t help them now.

From then on, it’s obvious what must be done. She stops throwing parties, and she also dismisses the household right away; she’s calculated that if she doesn’t have to pay them, the money they have saved will last a lot longer than it will otherwise. Eventually, though, it will run out unless they find some form of income.

Maybe she can find Anastasia and Drisella husbands this time. They’re older now, possibly more mature. Surely someone decently well-off will want them. Yes, that’s what she’ll do, she’ll try to find them husbands.

If for some reason they don’t find husbands—no no _no_ , she can’t afford to think that far ahead yet because it’s not going to happen. She’ll do anything in her power to avoid marrying again. Twice is enough. Twice is _more_ than enough for her.

* * *

They don’t have any servants. This is where Ella comes in nicely. The girl’s so predisposed to helping others that she picks up the job quite quickly, and it gives Lady Tremaine a vindictive sort of joy to watch the once overly loved girl become her servant. It’s a small pleasure, a cruel pleasure, but at this point she’ll take what she can get.

Her heart turns into something bitter, acidic, and she does not care about any of it, because caring about something would only lead to eventual heartbreak. To stay afloat, she’ll need to be ruthless, harsh, heartless. Time and time again, it’s been proven that the only way to survive is through work and sacrifice.

One day, the merchant’s daughter (with ash on her face, as if she’s incapable of washing), sets a place at the breakfast table for herself.

Absolutely _not_. Not looking like that. Not near Lady Tremaine’s daughters. _Her_ daughters are going to be married, to have a bright future. Not this girl.

“Who’s this for?” she asks, gesturing to the fourth place at the table, though she knows perfectly well who it was intended for. “Is there someone we’ve forgotten?”

The girl giggles nervously before saying, “It’s my place.”

“Well, it seems too much to ask you to prepare breakfast, serve it, and still sit with us,” she says casually, and Ella looks as if she’s been slapped across the face. Lady Tremaine continues, “Wouldn’t you prefer to eat when all the work is done, Ella? Or should I say _Cinder_ ella? Hm?”

Once upon a time, she’d been a young girl who'd felt genuine love and cared for others; now, however, she’s an empty husk of bitterness. Once she might have felt terrible about insulting the girl so blatantly; now, however, it’s one of the only things from which she gains enjoyment. Life has been hard enough on her. Let someone else face hardship for a change.

Without a word, the girl takes her things and leaves, and Lady Tremaine laughs at her.

* * *

One day, a few months later, there’s an announcement about an upcoming ball. It’s not just a ball for the nobility, either; every young maiden is eligible. Every single young woman. This could be her chance—or rather, Anastasia and Drisella’s. One of them could marry the _prince_ , and then they’d all be saved from financial ruin.

Even if they didn’t marry the prince himself, there were sure to be rich men at the ball, men of society, men who hopefully wouldn’t get ill in the prime of their life and leave their wife to fend for herself. They still had a chance at survival, and this ball could be their savior.

The merchant’s daughter assumes she’ll be getting a dress to wear to the ball as well, but Lady Tremaine makes it quite clear that’s not the case. A girl like _her_ in the same room as the prince? Ridiculous. Ella—no, _Cinder_ ella— isn’t even Lady Tremaine’s child; she’s doing the girl a favor by even letting her continue to stay on in the house. A crueler person would have turned her out long ago.

After some time, the night of the ball arrives, and Anastasia and Drizella look absolutely stunning in their brightly colored dresses. On other girls the look might have come off as gaudy, but they’re her daughters, and therefore they are as radiant as the sun. Lady Tremaine rather likes her own gown as well; it’s a sleek fitted dress with a jealous green hue, but what’s even better is the fact that it’s for _her_. She’s not wearing it to impress any potential suitors or apply for a job. It’s simply a dress that she had the luxury of choosing for herself, and that makes it all the more special.

“I daresay no one in the kingdom will outshine my daughters,” says Lady Tremaine warmly, cupping one of her daughters’ chins in each hand.

There’s a slight cough from behind her.

It’s the merchant’s daughter. Of course it’s the merchant’s daughter, and though her dress is a rather tasteless pink in a style that went out of fashion years ago, she’s still beautiful, horribly so. Even without putting all the work into her appearance that Lady Tremaine’s daughters had, Cinderella still manages to shine, and it isn’t _fair_. She’s not going to ruin all of Lady Tremaine’s work.

“Cinderella?” asks Lady Tremaine, fighting to keep her voice indifferent.

“It cost you nothing,” Cinderella replies, smiling. “It was my mother’s old dress, you see, and I took it up myself.” Sometimes Lady Tremaine feels as if she’ll never be at home here, not really; Cinderella’s mother, though long-dead, still clearly has her hold over the place.

Behind her, Anastasia and Drizella laugh.

“Cinderella at the ball! No one wants a servant for a bride.”

“After all I’ve done—” begins Lady Tremaine, but Cinderella interrupts her, saying that she doesn’t even want to meet the prince. A likely story.

“Oh, but you won’t,” says Lady Tremaine. “Because there’s no question of your going.”

“But—all of the maidens of the land are invited,” Cinderella replies, still wearing that infuriating sugar-sweet smile. “By order of the king.”

“It is the king I’m thinking of. It would be an insult to the royal personage to take you to the palace dressed in these old rags.”

“Rags?” the girl repeats, smile sliding just a bit from her face. “This was my mother’s.” That’s precisely why.

“Sorry to have to tell you,” begins Lady Tremaine, walking slowly towards the merchant’s daughter, “but your mother’s taste was _questionable_.” For a moment there’s an expression very like anger in the girl’s face, and Lady Tremaine is glad of it. “This— _thing_ —is so old-fashioned, it’s practically falling to pieces.” With that, she rips part of a sleeve off, still insulting it, and then continues to tear even more of the dress to pieces. Anastasia and Drizella follow suit.

“How _could_ you,” whispers the merchant’s daughter, eyes tearing up.

“How could I otherwise?” replies Lady Tremaine coldly. “I will not have anyone associate my daughters with you. It would ruin their prospects to be seen arriving with a ragged servant girl. Because that is what you are, and that is what you will always be.” Lady Tremaine’s crossing a line, or maybe she crossed it long ago, but she doesn’t care. For too long she’d let other circumstances control her. Now she’s the one finally in control, and it’s _glorious_. For effect, she adds, “Now mark my words: you shall _not_ go to the ball.”

* * *

Things seem to be going rather well at the start of the ball—she gets the chance to descend the beautiful stairs with Anastasia and Drizella right behind her—but after that, things devolve. The prince never takes notice of Lady Tremaine’s daughters despite all of her coaching, instead dancing with a mystery girl dressed all in blue and disappearing somewhere with her. It’s strange, but the radiant, gorgeous girl almost looks familiar. But that’s ridiculous. No one in this town is _that_ effortlessly beautiful. She must be a stranger.

However, Lady Tremaine does come across one interesting bit of information while there. The grand duke and captain of the guard are talking, apparently unaware of her presence.

“I already promised him in marriage,” says the grand duke, referring to the prince. “To the Princess Chelina.” He turns around after this and spots Lady Tremaine; panicked, she does the only thing she can: defers.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she murmurs, curtsying. “I did not mean to intrude.”

“No, it’s you who’ll have to forgive me, madam,” the grand duke says, bowing, and she relaxes.

“Your secret is safe with me,” she says as he exits. He stares at her for a brief moment, expression unreadable, before rejoining the throng of partygoers. The captain follows suit, leaving her alone.

So her daughters hadn’t really stood a chance of marrying the prince after all. Of course. What had been the point of getting her hopes up for nothing?

* * *

When they get home from the ball, Cinderella is oddly cheerful.

Lady Tremaine’s daughters don’t notice, but she does; while Anastasia and Drizella laugh about the mystery girl at the ball, the merchant’s daughter simply smiles and hums to herself like she’s the happiest thing in the world. It’s _very_ strange.

“The prince is not free to marry for love,” Lady Tremaine says after Anastasia and Drisella have finished mocking the mystery girl. Cinderella turns around and faces her at that. Lady Tremaine, pretending not to notice her, continues, “He’s promised to the Princess Chelina of Zaragosa. The Grand Duke told me himself.” Cinderella simply stares at her.

“That’s so very unfair,” whines Drizella.

“Yes,” replies Lady Tremaine slowly. The sooner her girls learn that life is unfair, the better off they’ll be. “The way of the world.”

* * *

The king dies. It doesn’t come as much of a shock to anyone, but the entire kingdom is still required to go through the traditional period of mourning. After it, there’s an announcement—the prince apparently hadn’t even known who the mystery girl was, and he wants her to present herself at the palace.

Cinderella is up to something, Lady Tremaine is sure of it. The girl’s been ridiculously happy when she should have been in mourning for the dead king, singing and humming and even sometimes dancing. It’s ridiculous, but Lady Tremaine finds her suspicions growing; could the merchant's daughter have been the mystery girl? Her suspicions are just that—suspicion, they’re not based in fact at all, but that doesn’t stop her from quickly ascending the staircase to Cinderella’s attic room and efficiently rummaging through all of her things.

In a chest by Cinderella’s bed, there’s a journal. Lady Tremaine opens it, curious. Most of the entries are mundane, ridiculous, but there’s one that interests her, the most recent one; it begins ‘I have had the most wonderful night of my life!’, and continues onward to describe a wonderful night at the ball, dancing with the prince. It’s the sweetest, kindest, most heartfelt story that Lady Tremaine has ever read, and there’s a hollow feeling in her heart once she’s done.

The story had mentioned a fairy godmother who’d helped the girl. It’s probably just lunacy. Fairy godmothers don’t exist, because if they did, why hadn’t one assisted Lady Tremaine and her daughters when they so desperately needed help? Why would a fairy godmother help a servant girl go to a _ball_ , of all things, but neglect to help a family on the brink of financial ruin? No fairy godmother had saved Lady Tremaine from marrying a man she didn’t love; she’d had to do that all by herself. Fairy godmothers _can’t_ exist.

The story could just be fiction, a daydream, and the fairy godmother part probably is, but the rest matches up much too well with the events of the ball, so Lady Tremaine redoubles her search. Eventually, she’s rewarded when she pulls up a loose floorboard and finds a glass slipper. With that, she takes the slipper, sits down on a chair in the shadows of the attic, and awaits Cinderella.

She’s rewarded a few minutes later when Cinderella runs in and immediately removes the floorboard, presumably searching for the glass slipper. Her look of outright confusion when it’s not there is absolutely priceless.

“Are you looking for this?” says Lady Tremaine from the shadows, holding up the glass slipper as she does so, and Cinderella turns to look at her. “There must have been quite a story to go with it. Won’t you tell me? No? Alright then, I’ll tell _you_ a story.” She hadn’t originally intended to say that, hadn’t originally intended to draw things out like this, but it just isn’t _fair_. None of this is fair, and the girl deserves to know _exactly_ why.

“Once upon a time,” begins Lady Tremaine, watching Cinderella’s face carefully throughout, “there was a beautiful young girl who married for love.” It’s the first time she’s ever spoken of Francis to the girl, albeit in a roundabout manner. She continues, “And she had two loving daughters. All was well. But one day, her husband, the light of her life, died. The next time, she married for the sake of her daughters, but that man, too, was taken from her.”

There’s an expression in Cinderella’s eyes that Lady Tremaine can’t discern. It might be pity.

“And she was doomed to look _every day_ upon his beloved child,” continues Lady Tremaine. Cinderella’s gaze flickers downward for a second, and Lady Tremaine adds, “She had hoped to marry off one of her beautiful, stupid daughters to the prince. But his head was turned by a girl with glass slippers. And so I lived unhappily ever after.”

That’s it, then. That’s how the story ends, because fairy tales aren’t real and never will be. Dreams don’t come true, and _especially_ not for the merchant’s daughter.

“My story would appear to be ended,” says Lady Tremaine. “Now tell me yours. Did you steal it?”

Cinderella shakes her head nervously, claims the slipper was given to her.

“Given to you? Given to _you_ ,” laughs Lady Tremaine bitterly. “Nothing is ever given. For everything we must pay, pay—”

“But that’s not true!” interrupts the girl. “Kindness is free. Love is free.”

Lady Tremaine could have clawed the stupid, idealistic young thing’s eyes out on the spot, but resists the urge. Instead she simply says, “Love is not free.” She doesn’t bother to expand on that, but does tell Cinderella that no one will listen to a poor servant girl; she’ll need a respectable gentlewoman to put her forward, and Lady Tremaine is willing to be that respectable gentlewoman so long as Cinderella makes her the head of the royal household and gets Anastasia and Drizella paired off with wealthy lords.

“And I,” Lady Tremaine continues, “shall manage that boy.” After such a long time being powerless, being subject to the whims of others, Lady Tremaine’s more than ready for a position power. She’d discussed her thoughts on the ruling of the kingdom a long time ago, with Francis. In addition, she’s an _expert_ at managing money by now, much better than any young princeling will be. She _deserves_ this, deserves everything, and now is finally her chance.

“But he’s not a boy,” whispers Cinderella, face scrunching a bit in apparent confusion.

“And who are you?” retorts Lady Tremaine. “How will _you_ rule a kingdom? Just leave it to me,” she says, moving the slipper back and forth in her hands as she heads toward the attic door. “That way we all get what we want.”

“No,” says Cinderella, and Lady Tremaine stops short.

“No?” she replies, turning to face the girl, and Cinderella says something ridiculous about how she wasn’t able to protect her father from Lady Tremaine, but she will protect the prince and kingdom. Lady Tremaine feels her fury rising, a fury that she’s managed to keep more or less bottled in over the years. How _dare_ this girl assume that her father needed protection from her. She hadn’t even _wanted_ to marry the man. In the end, he’d been the one who proposed. And for Cinderella to assume that her guidance would harm the kingdom on top of that—

“Well,” she says, trying to stay calm, “that is a mistake.” With that, she takes the slipper and smashes it against the wall in a cascade of too-perfect crystalline shards.

“No!” shrieks the merchant’s daughter. “W—why are you so _cruel_?”

 _Cruel_. Lady Tremaine’s slightly taken aback by the word. If being cruel means being hard and uncaring and willing to do anything to succeed, then yes, she is most definitely cruel. She’s had to become cruel in order to survive. There was really no other way around it.

“I don’t understand it,” continues the girl, tears welling up in her eyes. “I tried to be kind to you.”

“You? Kind to me?” The girl _exists_ ; no matter how kind she acts, she can’t make up for that.

“Yes,” continues Cinderella, “and no one deserves to be treated as you have treated me. Why do you do it? Why?”

Why, indeed. There’s a thousand answers to the question. Why _does_ she do it? Because her first husband died. Because she hadn’t loved her second one. Because he prized a dead woman over her time and time again. Because the girl’s a living reminder of what Lady Tremaine might have once been a long time ago. Because Lady Tremaine has known hardship, real hardship, and it latched itself deep inside and never let go until she was a hollow shell of what she’d once been.

In the end, though, all she says is, “Why? Because you are young and innocent and good, and I—”

She pauses. Cinderella waits for her to finish, but she finds that there isn’t anything left to say.

So instead she turns, leaves the attic, slams the door behind her and locks it despite Cinderella’s cries of protest, ignores the twinge of some feeling—pity? sadness? regret? she doesn’t know—deep inside, and walks down the stairs, still holding the shattered heel of the slipper.

* * *

She makes her way straight to the grand duke, the one who had promised the prince to Princess Chelina of Zaragosa, and demands to see him, claiming she has something he might be interested in.

“Oh,” he says blearily upon seeing her, gaze briefly dropping to survey her entire figure. “It’s you.”

“Yes,” she replies, smiling broadly with the fresh coat of red lipstick she’s recently applied. “It _is_ me, and I have a feeling you will be interested in hearing what I have to say.” He nods briefly and glances around the corridor before letting her into a castle room, closing the door behind him. Once both of them are seated, she pulls the glass slipper’s shattered heel from her handbag, and the grand duke raises his eyebrows.

“May I ask where you got this?”

“A ragged servant girl in my household,” replies Lady Tremaine.

“The mystery princess,” says the grand duke, “is a commoner.” He sets the slipper on the table, sighing a bit.

“Now you can imagine, when I discovered her subterfuge, how _horrified_ I was—”

“You’ve told no one else?” he interrupts.

“Not even my own daughters,” she replies, smiling slightly. He laughs a bit nervously, and she continues, “No one need ever know the truth.”

“You’ve spared the kingdom,” the grand duke says, “a great deal of embarrassment.”

“And I should like to keep it that way.”

The smile disappears from the grand duke’s face. “Are you _threatening_ me?”

Her smile, on the other hand, widens. It’s _so_ good to finally be in a position of power over someone, especially when that someone is the grand duke. “Yes.” She laughs, and he merely stares at her.

“So what do you want?”

“I should like to be a countess,” she replies, “and I require advantageous marriages for my two daughters.”

He nods, apparently considering his options. “Done. And the girl?”

“Oh,” replies Lady Tremaine, “do with her what you will. She’s nothing to me.” He nods again, and she gets up and leaves.

This could be it. She hates to count her chickens before they hatch, but this moment could be her chance. After everything she’s gone through, she could _finally_ be financially secure _and_ in a position of power on top of that. She deserves it, after all these years.

Long ago, Francis had told the newly married Lady Tremaine that she deserved everything. At the time she hadn’t believed him, but now she sees that ultimately he was right. She _does_ deserve everything. Goodness knows she’s suffered more than enough already; it’s time for her to receive her happy ending.

* * *

There’s a royal announcement; apparently the prince is still on the hunt for the mystery princess. This comes as a bit of a surprise to her, but she accepts it without question. Perhaps the grand duke simply hadn’t been able to convince the prince otherwise. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Cinderella’s still locked in the attic and with luck she’ll stay there for a while yet, so the mystery princess will never be found.

The grand duke and captain arrive with the slipper. Both Anastasia and Drisella try it on and attempt to make excuses for why it doesn’t fit, but it’s obvious that everyone in the room sees through said excuses. It doesn’t really matter anymore, though; the grand duke had exchanged a knowing smile with Lady Tremaine when he entered. The girls are going to be married to respectable gentlemen, and she’s going to be a countess.

After unsuccessfully having the girls try on the slipper, the grand duke and captain make their excuses politely and exit. Lady Tremaine watches them leave, a burning feeling of satisfaction inside. She’s won, she’s _won_ , things are going to work out—

There’s the sound of a high and clear singing voice in the air, a singing voice that could only belong to one girl, and Lady Tremaine feels her blood turn to ice at the sound of it. No. Not her. Not _now_.

She tries to pretend she doesn’t hear it, but by now the captain’s heard the voice as well.

“Do you hear that, your Grace?” he asks the grand duke.

“Let’s be off, Captain,” the grand duke murmurs.

Lady Tremaine begins to shut the doors, but the captain stops her, asking if there are really no other maidens in the household.

She freezes—lying to members of the royal court is a crime punishable by imprisonment—but eventually replies, “None,” in what she hopes is a natural-seeming manner.

The captain raises an eyebrow. “Then has your cat learned to sing?”

“Oh!” she says, and laughs. But her laugh is too long and too loud; she’d perfected this type of laugh during all the parties she’d thrown out of sheer loneliness, back when her second husband had still been alive. There it had sounded natural, but here the laugh comes off as incredibly false, and it appears that everyone knows it. Panicked, she finds the grand duke with her gaze, desperately hoping he’ll use his influence to help her.

“There’s been enough playacting today, Captain,” says the grand duke. “Let’s be off.”

“But she’s _lying_ , your Grace,” hisses the captain, and a cold chill runs down Lady Tremaine’s spine. If they discover Cinderella in the attic—

“Nonsense!” the grand duke insists. “I trust the lady. We’re leaving.”

Just then, one of the members of the royal guard removes his hat.

“Grand Duke,” he says, and everyone turns to look at him. He’s not a member of the guard at all; it turns out that the man is the new king himself.

This _can’t_ be happening. It’s like something out of some terrible nightmare, like the day she’d woken up to find her husband’s skin ice-cold. Things had been going along so well before, but now not only has she told a lie in front of the grand duke, but the king as well.

It isn’t fair. There are so many other people in the world who have easily gotten away with committing crimes that are _much_ worse than hers. She, on the other hand, can never get away with anything because the whole world seems to be eagerly waiting for her to trip up.

“Your Majesty,” she murmurs, and forces her slightly shaking legs to bend into a low curtsy.

“What sweet singing,” says the king, as she had expected he would. “It makes me want to tarry just a little.”

The grand duke begins to stutter an excuse, but the king will hear none of it, instead asking the captain to go investigate the sound. Lady Tremaine, kneeling, remains perfectly still, doesn’t stand up or look at the prince. If she does, she feels she’ll scream.

After the captain accepts his task, he walks up to the still-kneeling Lady Tremaine, saying, “Are you still inclined to insist that there are no young maidens in your household?”

She breathes in, breathes out, looks up at him from her kneeling position. Finally, she manages to stutter, “I—well, perhaps there could be a servant girl of some sort that I didn’t realize was in here, but if she _is_ I highly doubt she’s worth your time—”

“Regardless of your opinion as to her worth,” says the captain, looking sternly down at her, “the new king’s order was that all eligible young maidens were to try on the slipper.”

“Oh, I would never _dream_ of disobeying a direct order from the king,” she says, finally standing up with the assistance of the doorframe. “I invite you to search the place.” She smiles, but he doesn’t return it, instead brushing past her and into the house.

He’s a very thorough man, looking in every single room and making her unlock every closet on his way. Eventually, he comes to the attic door, and she freezes.

“Will you unlock this?” he asks, and she laughs nervously.

“Of course,” she murmurs, “but I must inform you that if the girl is up here, it’s her own fault—she’s a bit odd, you see—”

But the captain brushes past her without even listening, and finally arrives at the top door. He motions for her to unlock it; without a word, she does, feeling as if she’s just sealed her doom.

“There!” she says as he enters the room and sees the merchant’s daughter for the first time. “I told you it was no one of any importance—”

“We’ll see about that,” the captain says, and she forces herself to stay composed even though her whole future is slowly crumbling around her. Addressing Cinderella this time, he continues, “Miss, you are requested and required to present yourself to your king.”

“I _forbid_ you to do this—” begins Lady Tremaine, but the captain interrupts her.

“And I forbid you to forbid her,” he says with a piercing glare that freezes Lady Tremaine where she stands. “Who are you to stop an officer of the king? Are you an empress? A saint? A deity?”

The words pierce like daggers, but she tries not to let it show. It’s as if he’s mocking her for being none of those things. Maybe once, she could have been. Once she might have been a deity, at least to Francis; now, she’s absolutely nothing, a being with only hollowness where a heart should be.

She thinks for a split second before saying, “I’m her mother,” despite the fact that it pains her to say the words, to admit that the ragged-looking girl is kin of hers even if it’s only by marriage. Cinderella simply stares at her, and for a moment Lady Tremaine thinks that maybe it will be fine after all, that maybe—

“You have never been,” says Cinderella, head held high, “and you never will be, my mother.”

The captain glances at both of them before saying, “Come now, miss.”

Cinderella follows him, but in absolute desperation, Lady Tremaine grabs her arm as she leaves.

“Just remember who you are, you wretch,” she hisses, but the captain is watching her, so she says nothing further. Instead, she releases the girl, who promptly follows the captain out and shuts the door behind her, leaving Lady Tremaine all alone in the cold, empty attic.

Despite the open window, the attic is very lonely, horribly so. Lady Tremaine toys with the keys she’s still holding, terrified of what the future will bring. The attic is dark and the door is closed and she doesn’t know what to _do_ with herself anymore. She’ll probably be imprisoned after this, thrown into the dungeon and forgotten there for the rest of eternity.

The window’s open, though. The window’s open, and it’s a very long way down. Still holding the keys, she makes her way over to it and stares downward. There’s no doubt about it; a fall from here would probably kill the unlucky person instantly. Or the lucky person, as it were.

She could do it. It would be easy. She’d just have to ease the latch open a bit more, open the window all the way, and then leap out. Then all her problems would finally be over. Maybe she’d see Francis again.

Mind made up, she firmly graps the latch in her right hand, pushes it down. Instead of opening the window, though, she stays perfectly still. The latch is bitterly cold despite the sunlight streaming through the window. Outside it’s a beautiful summer day, but inside there’s only the chilled draftiness of the attic.

All she has to do is open the window. That’s it.

But many moments pass, and she can’t will herself to do it, can’t even manage to do this one last thing for her own gain. She’s a _coward_ is what she is, a complete and utter weakling. So much for being hard-hearted and uncaring.

She gently pulls the latch shut, wraps her arms around herself to keep warm. There are only two ways to leave the attic, really; there’s the option she’d been unable to go through with, and then there’s the stairs, where she’d undoubtedly be humiliated beyond belief by the captain and the new king. Once again, she finds herself drawn toward the window, toward the promise of an ending to all the misery. But she doesn’t— _can’t_ —move toward the latch again.

There are her daughters, she supposes. Her beautiful, stupid daughters whom she still cares about, no matter how stupid they are. Had she gone through with the first option, they’d have been terrified out of their wits, would have had to fend for themselves without her. It would have been exactly like how it was for her when Francis died. No, she can’t do that to them. Such a thing is too cruel even by her standards.

So she won't do it, then, for her daughters' sakes, or at least that's what she'll tell herself. If she's staying alive for her daughters' sakes, then she's not a coward. If she tells herself that for long enough, it'll be true.

Maybe she'll take neither of the two options; she'll simply stay up here and never have to interact with anyone ever again, never have to suffer through hardship anymore. It's very tempting, especially now.

But the attic is cold and drafty and horribly lonely. For a moment, she wonders how the merchant’s daughter must have felt, how she managed to stay up here every night with no one for company except for the sound of the wind in the far corner—

No. Lady Tremaine’s not going to repent now. She’s going to walk down the stairs, head held high as befitting someone of her status, and she’s not going to show any weakness no matter what abuses the merchant’s daughter hurls at her.

Her shoes click faintly on the stairs as she goes; the sound is monotonous, constant, like a timer measuring out the last minutes before her doom. Eventually, she arrives downstairs. Cinderella’s there with the king; he’s looking at the girl like she’s the sun, moon, and stars all wrapped up into one, but his expression turns into a frown once he looks up and sees Lady Tremaine on the stairs. The girl’s expression when she looks up, however, is curiously light.

“I forgive you,” says Cinderella softly, and then she and the king walk out of the house hand in hand.

Lady Tremaine finds that her legs will no longer support her, and she collapses slowly onto the stairs despite all her previous attempts at maintaining her composure. The girl could have condemned her, could have spat in Lady Tremaine’s face, and she’d have been entirely within her power to do so. But she didn’t. She’d been _kind_.

Cinderella had been kind, and Lady Tremaine hadn’t. All this time, Lady Tremaine had seen herself as the victim, the tortured soul; had she really just been the monster this whole time?

She doesn’t think she can bear it if that’s true.

The remainder of the household is in a frenzy, but she simply stays on the staircase, staring through the bars as if in a daze. All this time, it turns out that she’s ultimately no better than anyone else, and perhaps she’s worse. She’s a terrible person, a monstrous thing without a heart; she’s absolutely _worthless_.

Lady Tremaine remains perfectly still, clutching the bars, until the guards forcibly escort her from the premises.

* * *

“Were it a year ago,” begins the new king, “I would have ordered you imprisoned for a very long time.”

Lady Tremaine only stares at him. The two of them are alone in a tiny room that’s presumably underneath the castle, although she can’t be sure; she hadn’t been paying attention to the outdoors on the heavily guarded ride here.

“However,” the king says, “ever since—”

“Where are my daughters?” interrupts Lady Tremaine. She would normally have never dared to interrupt royalty, but at this point she doubts things can get worse.

“Pardon me?” asks the king, looking a bit affronted.

“I was asking about my daughters,” she says, trying not to sound overly frantic. “Anastasia and Drisella.” They’re probably lost without her, confused, scared out of their wits—

“Ah,” says the king. “They’re here as well, fear not. Now, as I was saying, a year ago I would have made sure you stayed in the dungeon for at least five years, if not more.”

Lady Tremaine only nods, mind still on her daughters.

“However, this year I made the acquaintance of a rather extraordinary girl,” the king continues. His face lights up. “Do you know what she taught me?” He seems to be waiting for Lady Tremaine to respond, but she doesn’t, and he presses on. “Have courage and be kind, that’s what she said, and I have decided to take those words to heart with regards to my kingship.”

Lady Tremaine nods again, carefully watching the young king’s face. ‘Have courage and be kind’ sounds like the worst possible way to run a kingdom to her, but she doesn’t volunteer this opinion, feeling that it would not be appreciated. After all, what does she know, anyway; the fairy godmother (who apparently _had_ been real after all, if the talk of the guards in her carriage was anything reliable to go by) hadn’t ever deigned Lady Tremaine worthy of being helped, so she must ultimately not be a person of importance. Some people, it seems, are simply lucky enough to live blessed, magical lives; Cinderella is, and perhaps the young king is one of those people as well.

“I’ve discussed the matter with her, and we’ve decided that although you have committed multiple crimes worthy of imprisonment—conspiring against the crown and grievous neglect, among others—you and your daughters will not be thrown into prison.” He pauses. Perhaps he’s waiting for her to thank him, to repent of all her sins. She doesn’t, however, only watches him carefully. There’s a catch. There _always_ is.

“We’ve decided that deportation will be suitable.”

“Deportation?” repeats Lady Tremaine, throat feeling oddly dry.

He nods. “We will escort you, your daughters, and the grand duke from the kingdom tomorrow morning.”

“The grand duke?”

The king sighs this time. “He confessed to everything—said that you and he had conspired to make you a countess and give your daughters advantageous marriages so long as you kept Ella hidden.” There’s a stab in Lady Tremaine’s heart at the thought of what could have been, but she pushes it away. It’s unwise to dwell on such things now. The king continues, “Do you deny this?”

She briefly considers making a case for her innocence, but decides against it; it’s not worth the trouble. “No,” she says softly, “I do not.” The king sharply nods.

“Tomorrow the four of you shall leave the kingdom,” he says, rising from his chair. “It would be rather inadvisable for any of you to return to this kingdom, as you will be discovered and imprisoned.” His tone is light, but the words are deadly serious, and Lady Tremaine finds herself briefly wondering if perhaps she had misjudged the young king’s political abilities. He continues, “We will grant you adequate funds in order that you may start a new life in a neighboring land.”

Adequate funds? How on earth is a _prince_ going to know the amount of money that a single mother and her daughters will need in order to live? But she holds her tongue; she supposes she should be grateful for this act of kindness.

The prince has made his way towards the door by now. He opens it, but before he leaves he says, “Lady Tremaine?”

“Yes?” she replies.

“Ella does not wish to see you, but she told me to inform you that she genuinely hopes for the best of luck in your new life.”

Lady Tremaine only shakes her head lightly, unable to believe the girl. For a moment, she considers apologizing, _something_ , but she’s much too prideful and too bitter for that sort of thing.

Instead, Lady Tremaine simply murmurs, “Your fianceé is a much better person than the rest of us.”

“Yes,” replies the prince. “She certainly is.” His eyes light up again, and for a moment Lady Tremaine is reminded of Francis when he’d been younger, but perhaps it’s only her imagination.

* * *

They’re in a rather large carriage, the four of them; the girls are in the back, completely silent for what must be the first time in their lives. She’s sitting next to the grand duke in the front.

She’d counted the money; it’ll last about a year if they’re careful, but a year isn’t a very long time. One year, and they’ll be right back to where they started.

“If I may,” says the grand duke, interrupting her reverie, “you are very beautiful.” His gaze briefly flickers to where it should not. Lady Tremaine doesn’t dignify him with a response; she stares straight ahead, considers her options.

Maybe this country will be different. Maybe she won’t even need to consider marriage, because their money will be worth more in the neighboring land than it is here. Maybe someone will decide to hire her despite her status as a single mother. Maybe Anastasia and Drizella will find husbands. Maybe they will be happy, _really_ happy, for the first time since Francis died—

No. She’s basing all her hopes on nothing, fantasies.

Maybe in the new kingdom there will be a fairy godmother, and the fairy godmother will say: _I’m terribly sorry, but I only help the good and the kind, and you are anything but that_.

For now she knows. Happy endings, real fairy tale endings, do exist, and they’re every bit as wonderful as the stories had made them out to be. Dreams truly do come true for the deserving, the kind.

Just not for her.

 ****  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory disclaimer: The rather downbeat ending is not at all meant to be an insult to the overall message of _Cinderella_. I honestly and unironically adored that movie, and I'm firmly in agreement that 'have courage and be kind' are words to live by. 
> 
> I am just…incredibly fascinated with terrible yet complex ladies, I guess? Especially when they're played by Cate Blanchett, wow. Not only that, but I'm also kind of obsessed with the idea of what happens to the people who _aren't_ the protagonists of fairy tales—like, why doesn't _everyone_ get a fairy godmother? What happens to the people who don't, the people who work hard at getting a prince to notice them only for all their hopes to be dashed by the simple wave of a wand? (Although I guess that idea applies to real life as well.) So both the fascination with terrible ladies and the idea of unfairness in fairy tales inspired this story, I suppose.
> 
> Also: this was probably apparent, but this fic is only canon compliant with regards to the 2015 film, and no other iterations of _Cinderella_ or Lady Tremaine were taken into account.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! :)


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